


Five Times Rosch Didn't Kiss Stocke (and One Time He Did)

by Quicksilver_ink



Category: Radiant Historia
Genre: 5+1 Things, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mild Internalized Homophobia, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-29
Updated: 2016-10-22
Packaged: 2018-08-09 02:11:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7782823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quicksilver_ink/pseuds/Quicksilver_ink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rosch is a completely normal guy. That means he doesn't have weird thoughts about things like kissing his best friend.  Not even a little bit. None whatsoever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ambush

**Author's Note:**

> Canon compliant with 100% sidequest completion, meaning there will be a thread of Rosch/Sonja throughout. Never fear, there will be no ship-bashing, no infidelity, and the focus will be on Rosch/Stocke, which is a tragically neglected ship in this fandom.

Rosch swore as he crashed through the brush of the forest just behind Stocke, chasing the fleeing Granorg scout. The surprise attack would be no surprise at all if he escaped to bring word of Alistel’s movements to their leaders, but chasing at breakneck speed carried its own risk, especially if the scout knew the woods here, had companions up ahead...

Rosch had nearly caught up with Stocke when the deer path widened into a small clearing. Their quarry was flanked by three more men, one with a crossbow, the others with drawn swords.

Stocke wasted no time, veering left to engage the two swordsmen. One fell to his flashing blade in seconds, but the second was a better match.

Rosch went for the scout, striking hard and fast with his gauntlet and sending the man flying. He landed heavily on the ground. Two strides would take Rosch close enough for a killing blow. 

“Burn him,” the scout shouted, trying to scramble back as Rosch brought his metal claw down. Rosch heard the low, sharp hum of a crossbow, the thud of a bolt landing in a tree just past him. He turned towards the shooter.  Rosch saw the weapon fall from the man’s hand and everything… slowed down.

Every detail was clear and bright and sharp as the mage brought his hands up with what seemed exaggerated slowness, his lips already moving to chant the spell. Rosch tried to run, but his knees were locked for what seemed like seconds (later, he’d realize it was scarcely more than a heartbeat), and when he could move it was like dragging his whole body through water. There was no way he’d be able to get out of range in time; even throwing himself on the ground would do little at this range.

_ This is going to hurt,  _ Rosch thought, but there was no time for fear.

Then, against all reason, Stocke was throwing himself at the enemy mage, his broken sword gripped like a knife. Rosch saw his friend’s path before he even landed,  but there was already light sparking between the mage’s fingers, it was too late, too late, and Stocke would be immolated …

But there was no fire, no smoke, not even a scream as Stocke landed heavily on the mage, his momentum crashing them both down to the ground.

There was silence, the pulse pounding in Rosch’s ears more a thing of sensation than sound. Then Stocke struggled to his feet, breathing heavily. When he turned to face Rosch, there was blood on the front of his chest, dark against the bright Alistel blue.

“Are you all right?” he asked around ragged breaths.

Rosch stared. “Are you  _ crazy?” _ he croaked when he could manage words. “You almost took a fireball point-blank!”

Stocke shrugged, or Rosch thought he did -- it was hard to tell when the man’s shoulders were still heaving with every breath. “Calculated risk. Would’ve been bad if he hit you. I was close enough.”

Calculated risk? Was the man mad? “You could have been killed! A hair slower and we wouldn’t have even needed to make a pyre for you!”

“You could have been, if I hadn’t done anything.” Stocke staggered over to a tree and braced himself on a low-hanging branch. 

Rosch crossed the clearing to join him by the tree. “Maybe, maybe not,” he said gruffly, checking his friend for injury. “But you didn’t have to risk yourself like that!” The blood-soaked patch worried him still, but up close it looked more like it came from outside than within -- the mage, not Stocke, then.

Stocke blinked slowly up at him, his green eyes a little glassy. “You’re angry with me. For saving your life.”

“For being so reckless with your own!” 

Stocke stared back, pale face uncomprehending, and Rosch wondered if he’d knocked his head when he’d tackled the mage.

“Why does it matter? As soldiers we risk our lives every day.”

“How can you even ask that!” Rosch growled.  “Of course you matter, you idiot! I… you…” Prophet’s Tears, how could he explain the difference between patriotism and martyrdom? “You’re a soldier of Alistel, you’re one of Sgt. Dessel’s, you know he’d be furious if you got yourself killed foolishly.”

Stocke closed his eyes, shook his head. He was breathing more easily now. “We both know he’s grooming you for command. I’m just cannon fodder.” He really seemed to mean it. “You’re more important.”

Rosch’s heart was a tangle of fury and pity. He wanted to grab Stocke by the shoulders and shake sense into him, wanted to crush his friend in a hug and never let go, wanted to… to do  _ something, _ the man was here, and so close, and had so little regard for his own welfare. But if Stocke really was concussed, none of that was a good idea. 

Instead, he leaned forward, eyes closing, and gently pressing his forehead against Stocke’s. “Never, ever say you’re not important.”

Stocke was silent, and when Rosch opened his eyes, he saw his friend was pale and trembling, his pupils noticeably different sizes. Definitely a bad sign. “Let’s get you to the camp healer. Lean on my shoulder.”


	2. Chapter 2

Rosch was starting to find the crowded bar almost stiflingly warm -- or maybe it was the beer and Stocke’s closeness. The bench at their table was packed, and Stocke’s thigh was pressed alongside Rosch’s as the smaller man tried to keep even a fractional gap between himself and the stranger on his right. And it must be that the beer was more potent than usual, because Rosch was only on his third, but that close contact was making his nerves hum in a disturbingly familiar and pleasant way.

 _He hates touching everyone, it’s just that you’re better than a drunken stranger_ , Rosch reassured himself. _You bump elbows at the mess hall and think nothing of it. This is more of the same._ Stocke held everyone at a distance, after all. Not like Sonja, who took clear comfort in physical contact with friends. She was free with her hugs, especially for the man she saw as a surrogate brother-

Stocke shifted slightly, his arm brushing Rosch’s. _Damnit._ He needed to stop thinking about having Sonja's arms around him, he was getting his reactions to her and Stocke all mixed up.

“Rosch, did you want to hear about the time I fought off a pack of goblins bare-handed or not?” Olman asked crossly. “You’re the one who asked, and you’re not even _listening_. And Stocke, is your beer really that interesting to look at?”

Rosch put his mug down. “Sorry. Go on.”

“Hmph. Stocke?”

Stocke did not look up from contemplating his beer. “I’m listening. And it’s committee. Like vultures."

Olman and Rosch blinked at him. “What?”

Stocke lifted his mug, sipped, and grimaced. He noticed their blank looks when he set it down. “The collective noun for a group of goblins. It’s a committee of goblins.”

"I have never heard that in my life," Rosch said. “Band, pack, group, team… had a Sergeant call them a squad, once.”

“Does it even matter?” Olman was cross. “Fine, committee of goblins. I was fighting off a committee of goblins in my skivvies. And so I.. wait, where was I?”

“You had just gotten to the part where you hit the leader over the head with a piece of firewood,” Stocke supplied. He was staring into his beer again.

“Right! I took my improvised weapon, and bam! I dealt the goblin a hard blow. And then--”

Rosch let the story wash over him, trying to pay attention and put Stocke’s proximity out of his mind.  It was hard; he’d heard it several times before, although the number of goblins seemed to have increased with the tellings.

“...so that was the last of them! So what did I do after killing seven goblins with nothing but my wits and brute strength? Well, I went and took the kettle off the fire and poured myself a well-earned cuppa.”

“Convenient timing, there.” Stocke’s voice was dry. “That the kettle was coming to a boil just as you finished killing the last goblin.”

“Yeah, wasn’t it?” Olman was too drunk -- on beer or his own ego, Rosch wasn’t sure -- to register the sarcasm. “Reminds me of the time I met the same chicken each time I -”

Rosch cleared his throat. “So, Stocke, how’s life in Specint?”

Was it just the lighting in the bar, or did Stocke’s face darken briefly? But Stocke’s face resumed placid indifference, and he gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Well enough. I keep busy.”

“I’ll say!” Rosch tried to keep his tone jovial. “This is what, the first time in a month I managed to get you to come out for a drink?”

Stocke shrugged again. “The division is new, and we still need to prove our worth to keep our funding. The work’s important for Alistel’s future, though.” He lifted his mug to his lips, but didn’t drink. “For Alistel’s future,” he repeated, eyes fixed on some spot in the unseen distance.

“Well, we can all drink to that!” Olman said, lifting his mug. “To Alistel’s future!”

Rosch raised his own glass, and a second later, so did Stocke. Rosch meet Olman’s eyes as they clinked mugs -- an old soldiers’ superstition turned stubborn habit. Stocke averted his own gaze and started to lower his mug, but Rosch glared at him until he raised the mug again and dutifully tapped it against Rosch’s.

They all drank. Or at least raised their mugs to their lips -- Rosch wasn’t sure whether Stocke actually drank.

As Olman launched into another boastful story, Rosch hid a sigh. He’d hoped inviting some friends from their old squad would help bring Stocke back out of his shell, but the others hadn’t been able to make it. And with just the two of them, Olman’s boasting and bawdy stories were making things worse. Rosch had fought so hard to draw out the aloof man in their army days, and he had come so far,  but every week since his transfer to Specint, Stocke seemed to retreat further.

“--and now I’m out of beer.” Olman set down his empty mug. “I’m going up for another. Anyone else?”

Rosch glanced sideways at Stocke. “Both of us, but something else, though. This stuff’s like --” Horse piss, he started to say, but glanced at Stocke. Experience had taught him that knew that if he made the traditional comparison, his friend would ask how he knew. "Really awful beer,” he finished lamely.

Olman collected their mugs -- Rosch’s nearly empty, Stocke’s still mostly full-- and a handful of coppers from Rosch, before pressing his way through the crowd.

“I’m not paying you back for a drink I didn’t ask for,” Stocke said when the man was out of earshot.

“It’s my money to waste,” Rosch told him. “And the other stuff was awful.”

Stocke raised an eyebrow. “You’d spend money to have me not drink less-terrible beer?”

Rosch fought the urge to sigh. _I just wanted you to get out and relax for once_. “We’ll be spared him talking our ears off for a little longer this way.”

“The time it takes to pull an extra pint?” Stocke snorted. “Besides, you’re the one who organized this outing.”

“Yes, because you’re becoming a shut-in. When was the last time you went out and did something fun in the evening?” Rosched pressed. “And no, holing up in your closet of a room with a book doesn’t count. You’re terrible about--”

The group occupying the other half of their long table got up then, making loud, cheerful goodbyes as they extricated themselves from the table. By the time it was quiet enough to converse without raised voices, Rosch had lost the thread of what he’d been going to say.

“I’m… fine, Rosch. Really. Heiss just keeps us all busy.”

“If you’re sure.” Rosch bit his lip. He’d expected Stocke to scoot down the bench, now that there was space, but the man hadn’t moved -- he was still there, warm and close, and without Olman there it was harder to ignore. “Sonja misses you.”

Stocke really did smile at that, although the upturn in the corners of his mouth was slight enough to miss unless you were looking closely. “Thanks. Tell her I’ll drop by the infirmary sometime soon.”

“Better make it somewhere else. She tells me you come in wounded often enough as it is.” He ran his right hand through his hair, then rubbed his shoulder where scarred flesh met his gauntlet’s metal socket. “Heiss’s got you doing some dangerous things.”

“Better me than someone less skilled.” It wasn’t a boast, just a statement of fact. “I heard your squad saw some action last week.”

“It was just bandits. Murray and Walter are still on the casualty lists, so they had us patrolling the main highway while the farmers bring the harvests in. Boring work, safe as it gets, really.”

“But still important,” Stocke said, and Rosch nodded his agreement. The whole war was about farmland, after all, and food, and you didn’t need to be a thaumatech scientist to know the harvests were getting worse each year even in the most fertile areas. Beer was getting more expensive, too...

Rosch was mid-brood when he realized how neatly Stocke had changed the subject. “Hey, now.”

“Hmm?” Stocke tilted his head in inquiry, meeting Rosch’s eyes with his own. They were green, open and unconcerned -- just curious. Rosch let his gaze follow the smooth curve of Stocke’s nose, down to his broad mouth. There was faint golden stubble just above his upper lip, and Rosch wondered, suddenly, if he’d be able to feel the hair if he --

Later on, whenever he thought back to that evening, Rosch was very, _very_ glad that at that moment Olman returned, tripped and doused them both in beer. 


	3. Chapter 3

Rosch watched the young men of his brigade file (or limp) out of the courtyard. “They’re coming along, I think,” he commented, glancing at his companion.

“They’ve improved,” Stocke allowed. “With another five months of training...”

They didn’t have five months.  They didn’t even have five weeks. Rosch sighed and wiped sweat off his face. “Damn Granorg.”

Stocke looked at him sidelong and raised an eyebrow.

Rosch sighed again and shook his head. He knew Stocke thought Granorg was the wrong party to blame for the rush to send their wet-behind-the-ears recruits to the front lines. But you couldn’t argue with General Hugo, could you? Generals were the ones who saw the big picture stuff. Besides, he spoke for the Prophet Noah. Rosch wasn’t really sure what he thought about all of that, but it certainly mattered to most everyone else.

“You up for a round of sparring?” he asked, instead.

“What, tired of fighting recruits?” Stocke asked, but he was already heading towards the rack of blunted swords.

Rosch frowned at his friend. “They’re not just recruits, not after Alma Mine.”

Stocke lifted a sword from the rack and checked its balance, then set it back. “What should I call them, then?”  There was the slightest edge to his voice; he didn’t need to say the words ‘cannon fodder’ for Rosch to hear them.

Rosch set his jaw. “Stocke, I’m not any happier about taking these boys into battle than you are. Are we sparring or not?”

There was a long pause as Stocke tried another sword, then replaced it. “I know you’re not. I’m sorry.” He selected a third sword, tried it, and turned back to Rosch. “We’re sparring.”

“Great.” If Stocke was handicapping himself with an unfamiliar blade... “No magic,” Rosch warned, before trudging towards the racks of similarly-blunted spears.

“That’s fine.”

Rosch tried a few practice spears before he found one that was satisfactory. They’d drilled the brigade with real spears, to best accustom the boys - the men, _their_ men - to the weight and balance of the weapons they would use, and normally Rosch would practice the same way, but Stocke seemed to want a challenge.

They took a few minutes to get their muscles loose again-- they’d warmed up with the squad at the start of practice, but leading drill at this stage involved a lot of standing and watching and shouting corrections. Rosch kept to simple exercises until his left arm stopped pulling at the shoulder, then joined Stocke in the center of the yard.

A meeting of eyes, shared nods, and a pair of salutes --  Rosch thumping his fist to his chest, Stocke in that uncharacteristically elegant flourish with his sword -- and the match was on.

Things started slowly -- they circled one another, making only the slightest of feints, testing each others’ reactions and their own speed. Stocke would waggle his blade, Rosch shift his grip on his spear ever so slightly. It hardly looked like combat at all. _Kiel would probably be disappointed,_ Rosch thought, and grinned to himself as he lifted his left foot and Stocke immediately shifted his weight, ready for a mirrored step back.

It was Stocke who finally broke the pattern. One moment he was reacting to Rosch’s latest feint, the next he was closing the distance between them in a skip-hop, gripping both hilt and blade as he thrust his sword towards Rosch’s shoulder, angling for the gap in his usual armor.

It was a favorite opener of his, though, and Rosch was ready, spear gripped solidly in in both hands. But the usual force was not there when they connected, Stocke’s blow little more than glancing. Rosch’s arms moved before his conscious mind registered that Stocke had changed the angle of his attack, bringing the hilt of his sword around towards Rosch’s head -- another favorite move of his. But Rosch swung his spear up, and Stocke had to step through to avoid a smack from the shaft under his arm.

They spun and faced each other, and the cautious dance began again.

“Predictable,” Rosch taunted, but Stocke stayed out of reach and silent.

The next time they clashed, it was Rosch who closed the distance, his spear meeting Stocke’s block with a satisfying force that he felt all the way through his arms and shoulders.

It continued in that pattern: circling, then one or the other closing the distance, and short bursts of traded blows and blocks.

Within a few such exchanges,  Rosch’s earlier frustration was completely forgotten. Sweat splashed the dusty courtyard around them, his blood rushed through his veins and breath came fast in his throat. Stocke’s movements were lithe and sure, those green eyes flashing above a fierce grin. Everything just felt _right_. After watching novices fumble with the simplest of maneuvers, it was such a relief to face someone who got it right. Someone like Stocke, who understood combat not just as survival, but as craft.

The courtyard was large, but as much as Stocke liked to dance around, Rosch was good at gaining ground. Soon enough they were near the wall, not that Rosch expected Stocke would let himself get trapped.

Sure enough, just when Rosch was beginning to get impatient with how close Stocke was cutting it -- they were little more than a meter from the wall! -- Stocke made his move. The swordsman rushed in again, from the right. Almost simultaneously, light flashed to Rosch’s left. The only way out was forward, and he took it without thought, ducking inside Stocke’s sword-swing and slamming bodily into his friend.

Momentum carried them forward to crash against the wall.

It took a few breaths for Rosch’s head to clear, for the combat-honed reflexes to quiet. He’d turned his left arm at the last minute, pinning Stocke to the wall with the Gauntlet’s underarm. His friend’s eyes were wild and dark, and he grinned even as his breath came in unsteady gasps. Rosch could feel Stocke’s chest heave under his arm, their bodies scant inches apart, his own pulse still pounding. And Stocke’s face, flush with exertion, was terribly, terribly close.

“Idiot, you could’ve been killed if I’d had my combat Gauntlet on,” Rosch growled. “Those blades along the sides...”

“But you didn’t,” Stocke croaked, and Rosch eased off the pressure on his friend’s chest, so Stocke could breathe. “Besides. In a real fight, I’d be using more than light spells.”

“We’d agreed no magic!”

Stocke started laughing, wheezing and raspy.

Rosch was torn between fondness and exasperation. “Only you would think it’s funny that you could’ve gotten killed.”

Stocke shook his head and continued to laugh. Rosch was struck by the perverse urge to lean harder on him so he’d stop, but knocking him around when he was in this mood would only encourage him.

Although… the thought of pressing Stocke harder against the wall, feeling his body shake with laughter against his own, was --

Damnit. It must be being with Sonja, or something, that was turning him into a teenager again. He stepped back, releasing his friend. Stocke slid to the ground, still laughing, and Rosch had to fight an impulse to haul him bodily up by his collar and--

Sudden applause cut off that line of thought.  “Wow, that was amazing!” Kiel’s voice rang brightly through the air.

Rosch made himself turn slowly, rather than jumping back like a guilty adolescent. “Weren’t you supposed to be washing up after drill, Kiel?” he barked, realizing the boy was in uniform rather than civilian clothes.

The boy saluted, lopsidedly but enthusiastically. “I did, sir! This is a clean uniform, sir! I rushed right back out to watch you two spar, sir!”

Stocke climbed to his feet. “Come to learn by example?”

Kiel beamed, delighted that Stocke had addressed him. “I came to learn from the best, Sergeant. Mixing swordplay and magic! Wow!”

The boy’s hero-worshipping streak was starting to get a little worrisome. Stocke wasn’t the sort to abuse his authority, but… “You came to learn from a _cheater,_ ” Rosch grumbled, but not loudly enough for Kiel to hear.

Stocke was close enough to hear, though, and shot him a wry look. “Not that it stopped you pinning me to the wall.”

“That was impressive, too, Captain!” Kiel gushed. “You had a spell going off right next to you, but you just went around, cool as an icicle! And then in the blink of an eye, you beat the Sergeant!”

Rosch opened his mouth to demure -- it was standard training, a soldier wouldn’t be much good on the battlefield if he couldn’t keep his wits about when there were spells going off -- but then it struck him. It was standard training at the end of six months.They would be lucky if they had six weeks. He glanced at Stocke, whose grimace suggested he’d come to the same realization.

“You’ll learn that too,” Rosch promised his still-saluting subordinate. “Sergeant Stocke, tomorrow I want you to pick the ten most likely men and run them through the usual drill, but-” He gestured with his right hand, trying to convey explosions. “We’re moving up the training schedule.”

Stocke shook his head. “I’m thinking Raynie and Marco. He’ll lead the drill, and she could use the precision practice.”

Rosch paused for thought, then nodded. Raynie knew more kinds of magic than Stocke did, and Marco would keep the mage’s more, er, playful tendencies in check. “Good idea.”

Kiel looked back and forth between the two of them, eyes shining. “Wow, did you just decide on a new way to train us from your sparring? Amazing!”

“...something like that,” Rosch allowed, darting a look at Stocke. Ah, yes, there it was, the little set of his jaw that said Stocke was getting uncomfortable with all of Kiel’s gushing praise. “Er…Kiel, how about you go tell the other guys in the brigade, so they know what to expect tomorrow?”

“Yes, sir!” Kiel saluted. “You know… the way you two are always looking out for the Brigade, it’s like you’re our dad and mom!" He saluted Rosch and Stocke, in turn, and trotted off.

When he was gone, Rosch turned to Stocke, worried about how his friend would take the lad’s inadvertently backhanded praise. “Er… I don’t think he meant to imply you were, you know, womanly, or less of a man, or-”

Stocke gave him an odd look. “That doesn’t matter. Anyway, I think we can say you won the match. Good fight.” 

“Best two out of three?” Rosch offered, the sportsman’s reply.

“I’d just as soon hit the showers,” Stocke said. Then he rubbed his shoulder, winced, and added dryly, “Unless you want to throw me against the wall some more.”

Rosch shut down hard on the mental image that suddenly rose to mind. _Think of Sonja, think of Sonja_ , he told himself, trying to substitute her face for Stocke’s. When he'd been younger, he'd gotten very good at that kind of thing.

“You go on ahead,” he said quickly to Stocke, and tapped his own left shoulder. “I’ve got some other exercises I should do, for this.”

The shower was _definitely_ not a safe place to be right now, unless it was a very cold one.


End file.
